Empty Net (Seattle Serpents)
Empty Net: Chapter 1

I laugh, tucking my phone into my back pocket before this chat really gets out of hand. I mean, it’s always a bit unhinged, but I’m in public, so I should have at least some decency, especially given that I’m ninety percent certain the older woman behind me is reading over my shoulder.

When I peek back at her, she’s scowling, so I shoot her a wink. That gets her to smile. I chuckle to myself, turning back around as the person in front of me scoots up and begins tossing their groceries onto the belt with zero organization. It makes my eye twitch, but I mind my business as I was taught.

Halfway through the haphazard unloading, they make eye contact with me, reaching into the back of their cart. I hold my breath, waiting for that spark, that Oh my god, I know this person! gleam to hit their eyes. But it never does, and when they place their milk onto the belt without incident, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Usually, I don’t have an issue talking with fans, but I don’t like talking to them when I’m trapped in a line like this, unable to make a quick exit if they start asking questions I don’t want to answer.

Like “Why didn’t you stop that goal from Pittsburgh last night?”

Or “How could you let two shorthanded goals be scored?”

And “Think maybe you need to sit out a few games? Regroup?”

I know it’s exactly what they’d ask because it’s what I’ve been asking myself since the final buzzer sounded. My one job last night was to stop pucks, and I sucked. The rest of the team showed up, and that’s the only reason we won. It certainly wasn’t my goal-saving abilities.

I push the unwanted thoughts aside, trying not to dwell, especially since we walked away with two points in the end, and that’s all that matters. Besides, tonight is supposed to be about fun, not hockey.

I’m sure I’m not expected to bring anything, but my mother would hand me my ass if she knew I went to a party empty-handed. I set my basket on the belt, then unload my provisions. I’m sure the party hosts—and the rest of my team, for that matter—will endlessly make fun of me for bringing something, but it’s just ingrained in me at this point. Champagne and cookies it is.

“Hey, Fox,” the cashier says as I approach the payment terminal.

“Hey, Rico. How are you?”

The lanky, overgrown kid with hair down to his shoulders who smells suspiciously like pot shrugs. “Well, I’m stuck here until next year, but it’s overtime, so I guess I can’t complain.”

I can’t help but laugh at his horrible “next year” joke.

“What are you up to?” he asks as he drags one of the boxes of cookies across the scanner. “Must be something fancy with you dressed like that.”

I glance down at the tux I’m wearing, then grin back up at him. “What? This old thing?”

“Yes, that old—what is it, Tom Ford?—tux you’re wearing.”

It’s Armani, though I’m not sure that makes it any better, so I don’t correct him.

“Got a thing with some teammates.” I purposely keep my answer vague. Not that I think Rico would tell a soul where I’m off to—he’s too cool for that—but still.

“Teammates.” He shakes his head with a smile. “I love how you casually say that like you’re not going to hang out with the entire Seattle Serpents team. Still wild to me that you even come through here and you don’t have someone buying your groceries for you.”

“I’m just a normal guy, Rico,” I tell him, certainly not for the first time since I’m here at least a few times a week when I’m not on the road.

He snorts. “A normal guy who makes six point four million a year.”

I don’t tell him I actually make $6.6 million, which means he’s right—I’m not a regular guy. I’m a professional hockey goalie being paid millions of dollars a year to play a game I love more than life itself who is off to a catered party where we’ll no doubt drink thousands of dollars’ worth of champagne like it’s something we do every Tuesday and not even bat an eye. There’s nothing normal about that at all.

He gives me my total, and I slide my black card into the reader.

“Stuck at work or not, I hope you have a good night and a happy New Year, Rico,” I say as I grab my bags full of supplies I don’t really need.

“Thanks, Fox. Don’t party too hard, yeah?”

I’m halfway to the exit when he cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “And go Serpents!”

I hustle out of the store faster than ever, practically running to my blacked-out Denali Ultimate in hopes nobody decides to stop me. I only laugh at the absurdity of everything when I’m tucked safely inside and there have been no incidents to speak of.

My mind spins as I navigate the Seattle streets, heading toward The Sinclair, where our team’s New Year’s Eve party is being hosted by our captain and his girlfriend, Auden. This time last year, the hotel belonged to Auden’s company, Sinclair Properties, but she sold it, having felt the luxury hotel empire was running fine without her and wanting something else out of life. Now, here we are, holding team parties there.

The Serpents got lucky with no games today and tomorrow. Otherwise, I highly doubt we’d be doing anything like this. Everyone would be holed up at their houses, ice packs on their quads and massage guns working their calves, recuperating after the game. I know that’s precisely where I’d be, especially since every game lately feels like a grind.

Fuck, I should have played better last night. We had to work too damn hard for that win. For all our wins lately, actually. It’s taxing for the whole team, and the worst part is that it’s my fault. If I could just keep the puck out of the back of the net, we wouldn’t have to work from behind so much. If I could push from post to post just a little faster, I could save us from going to overtime and adding those extra minutes of ice time. If I could get my glove in just the right position, I could keep us ahead. So many ifs, yet none of those things have happened. I need to be on my A game going into the new year because I don’t know if the rest of the team can keep going like this, barely hanging on each night, thanks to all my screwups.

When Dash, our backup, is in net, it’s like we’re a whole different team, but I’m supposed to be the starting goalie. I’m supposed to be this team’s winner, this city’s champion. I’m none of those things.

I shake away my doom-and-gloom thoughts as I pull up in front of the hotel, then toss my keys to the valet—who looks very excited to get behind the wheel of my baby—and make my way inside to the party on the top floor.

“Why does it not surprise me that you’re the first one here?” Hutch asks as I nod at the guard standing by the entrance, who lets me pass without an issue. Guess he’s aware of who is on the team and who isn’t.

“Or that you brought…gifts?” My captain’s eyes drop to the paper bags in my arms.

“Champagne.” I hike the bags higher. “And cookies.”

He huffs out a laugh. “See? Such a good boy, Foxy.”

That’s what they call me: the good boy, the Southern gentleman. I guess I am those things, but I’m not the perfect guy they seem to think I am. For instance, I suck at my job, so there’s that.

I hand off the bags to a caterer who has appeared at my side. Honestly, if you’d told me at the start of last season that our usually grumpy captain would be openly participating in a party where there’s a staff and no strippers, I’d have laughed right in your face. Guess a lot changes about a man when he’s fallen in love.

“Thanks,” I tell them. “And feel free to take a cookie. They’re white chocolate peppermint and are to die for.”

They smile up at me before bustling away.

“They aren’t going to try those, are they?”

Hutch gives me an incredulous look. “Uh, probably not. They’re working. Do you ever stop trying to take care of other people?”

“I can’t help it. It’s just part of who I am.” My parents raised me to always give before I take, and I’ve taken that to heart my entire life.

He shakes his head. “Damn Southern men and their infinite politeness.”

Some people, like my favorite forward, Lucas Lawson, say I’m too nice, and I guess those people wouldn’t be entirely wrong. But it’s hard not to be when it’s impressed upon you from the get-go.

Part of me wonders if that’s the issue with my game lately. Am I being too polite out there? Do I need to fight for my crease more? Do I need to stand my ground and ensure nobody gets in my blue paint?

I already know the answer, and it’s a resounding yes.

I straighten my cufflinks. “Need any help with last-minute touches?”

Hutch gives me another look, this one saying You just can’t help it, can you? “Son of a bitch, Fox. Go grab a drink or something before I make you do extra drills at practice tomorrow.”

It’s a total bluff. He can’t make me do shit, but just the idea of it has me moving toward the bar anyway.

“Vodka soda, please. No ice,” I request, and the bartender nods, getting to work on my drink as I rest against the bar, looking out at the space that’s been decorated to perfection.

Low lighting and fairy lights make it feel like we’re outside under the night sky instead of in a dark, closed-off ballroom. Several standing tables are scattered around, all draped in black linen with gold accents and a beautiful bouquet of white roses centered on each one. A photo booth is off to the side, and a deejay is set up across the room. There are not one, not two, but four bars, one in each corner, like whoever put this together knew what they were getting into shoving so many hockey players into one room.

“Here you are, sir,” the bartender says, sliding a glass my way.

“Thank you kindly,” I tell them with a nod before lifting the glass to my lips and taking a sip as my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it free to replace a text from my mother. I stifle a groan and, against my better judgment, open the message.

Another message comes in before I can respond.

That’s my mother for you, always worried about her children, no matter how old we get. It doesn’t matter that I’m thirty years old and live across the country—she’s still worried.

I let my thumbs fly over the screen.

I know my mother would love nothing more than to always have her children under her roof. And truthfully, I wouldn’t mind it since I hate being alone lately. It’s one of the reasons I’m one of the first to arrive to this party. I didn’t want to sit around my apartment, twiddling my thumbs for another second longer. These days, being alone leads to me watching replays, which leads to me obsessing about my game, which leads to me playing like shit. I need the distraction of tonight, something to take my mind off the way our games have gone lately, something to loosen me up so I can play better for my teammates.

I tuck my phone back into my pocket and let my eyes roam around the room. They snag on Hutch and his girlfriend, Auden, across the way, their heads together as they laugh about something. An inside joke, I’m sure.

If I had seen this display of cutesy love a few years ago, I might have made a silly comment or ribbed my teammate endlessly in the locker room. All my single teammates would have since we formed the Serpents Singles Club—or at least that’s what Lawson likes to call us—which was really just a pact to remain unattached until we each got the chance to lift the Stanley Cup over our heads.

At the time, I was content with our deal, totally on board, because why not? It wasn’t like I was against relationships or anything, but I wasn’t looking for one either. I was good with being single and having fun. But one by one, my teammates have started falling in love, leaving our agreement by the wayside, and it’s had me feeling things I never expected to feel…like longing.

Hutch was the first to break the promise when he met Auden before last season started. There was a lot of drama around them getting together, but everything worked out in the end. Then Lawson went and fell for Auden’s twin sister, Rory. He found a puppy, stopped at Rory’s veterinary clinic for help, and, in typical Lawson fashion, annoyed her until she admitted she had feelings for him too.

Our latest to fall is Hayes, who was given guardianship over his niece this past summer. With his history of causing havoc, I guess I really shouldn’t be surprised he fell for his nanny, someone completely off-limits. It’s entirely on brand for him. He and Quinn are happy, though, and that’s really all that matters.

I’m glad they found their people. Truly, I am. But now that I see what they have, it makes all my one-night stands and short flings feel wrong. I want my own someone. Someone to laugh with, to debate with regarding whether you should put peanut butter on both slices of bread, someone who won’t be afraid to call me on my shit whenever I need it.

I toss back the remains of my drink to stamp out the feeling of loneliness clawing at my chest, the same feeling that grows heavier and heavier by the day. I order another vodka soda, promising myself to slow down after this one. I can already feel the heat rising in my cheeks from drinking so much so fast, especially since I typically stay sober during the season and it’s been a while since I’ve had a drink.

When I’m handed a glass this time, I take a slow sip, pacing myself. A dark-haired woman in a skintight, shimmery silver dress and sky-high black heels marches by, stopping just a few feet away. Her head is tilted low, and she presses a phone to her ear.

“No, Mother,” she hisses. “Because I said no. Don’t you know what that word means?”

A sigh.

“I don’t care who he is. I am not going on a date with anyone you set me up with.”

A pause.

“Because I’m already seeing someone! So, no, we absolutely will not be talking about this later when I calm down because I won’t be calming down.”

I grin at her tenacity. Good for her, sticking up for herself.

“Now, I’m getting off the phone before we both say something we regret. Goodbye, Mother.”

She wrenches the phone from her ear, slamming her thumb on the screen so hard she lets out a soft yelp. She pulls her hand away and shakes it, examining her long, perfectly manicured nail.

“Dammit,” she mutters, sucking her thumb into her mouth, her red-painted lips closing around it.

I shift, swallowing thickly at the gesture. There’s no reason whatsoever that should have any effect on me. Still, it does, and it’s just another sign of how fucking lonely I am because my mind immediately goes to other things I’d like to see red lips wrapped around.

I clear my throat, draining the rest of my vodka. So much for savoring it.

The sound draws the woman’s attention, and she lifts her head, recognition all over her features. She’s not the only one because I know just who it is that has my cock twitching in my pants: Lilah Maddison, Auden’s best friend.

And I know for a fact she isn’t seeing anyone.